The Malevolent Comedy

by Edward Marston

  The rustle of light feet through grass made him turn round. Walking towards him was an attractive young woman, holding a handkerchief to her eyes. She stopped a yard away from him.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Dick Honeydew.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was Hal’s friend.’

  She lowered her head. ‘Then you’ll know how he died.’

  ‘I was there at the time,’ he said. ‘It was dreadful.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it must have been.’

  ‘I … came to bid farewell to him.’

  ‘So did I,’ she said, dabbing her eyes as she looked at him. ‘Hal was my nephew. I loved him so much.’

  ‘Were you at the funeral yesterday?’

  ‘No, we only arrived in London this afternoon. I’ve just come from his parents. They told me where to find the grave so that I could pay my respects. I’m honoured to share the moment with you, Dick.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Will you step into the church with me and say a prayer for him?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  Honeydew was unguarded. It never occurred to him that the beautiful, elegant woman in front of him might have worn something more suitable to a churchyard than the striking red and green dress with a matching hat. From the little that Hal Bridger had told him about them, Honeydew had gathered the impression that his parents were earnest, austere, dedicated Puritans. When he had joined Westfield’s Men, they had disowned him, behaviour that Honeydew simply could not understand. In his trusting way, the apprentice was pleased that at least one member of Hal’s family seemed to show genuine grief.

  They did not even reach the porch. As soon as the boy’s back was turned, a man came around the angle of the church and crept up behind him. When the moment was ripe, the sobbing aunt tossed away her handkerchief and used both hands to grab Honeydew by the shoulders and push him towards her accomplice. Before he knew what was happening, a cloak had been thrown over him and strong arms lifted him from the ground. Honeydew was terrified. He was unable to struggle free and his cries for help went unheard beneath the thick woollen cloak.

  There was no escape. He had been kidnapped.

  Chapter Nine

  John Vavasor had been visiting his brother in Richmond that day and did not return to the city until early evening. Instead of going home, he rode straight to the Green Man, where he could be certain of finding his co-author. Cyrus Hame was in high spirits. He was carousing at the tavern with two of the actors from the Curtain, sharers with Banbury’s Men, who had enjoyed the success of Lamberto and who looked forward to repeating it with Pompey the Great. Vavasor joined them and revelled in the jollity until the actors took their leave.

  ‘They cannot stop thanking us for Lamberto,’ said Hame. ‘It was so far above the level of their other plays that it is set to remain a favourite with them for a long while.’

  ‘Every time it’s performed, our names will be voiced abroad.’

  ‘John Vavasor and Cyrus Hame.’

  ‘By rights, it should be Cyrus Hame and John Vavasor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You should take first place.’

  ‘I’d not hear of it.’

  ‘You made the play acceptable to Banbury’s Men,’ said Vavasor.

  ‘I’ll own that I do have that knack,’ said Hame, affably. ‘I’ve always been able to improve a play but, first, I need a good play on which to work. In Lamberto, you provided that.’

  ‘You changed it completely, Cyrus.’

  ‘I merely brought out its full power. You are the master craftsman, John, and I, a simple journeyman. Your name should take precedence.’

  ‘You are so gracious.’

  ‘And you are so generous. Though we toiled side by side on the play, you let me have the lion’s share of the fee.’

  ‘You could have had it all, Cyrus.’

  ‘Your benevolence is overwhelming.’

  ‘I write for fame. All that I wanted was to see my work on a stage.’

  ‘Whereas I prefer to write for money,’ said Hame, feeling his purse. ‘Fame is simply a dream, a fantasy, an illusion, something that only exists in the minds of others. Money is real. You can hold it in your hands, toss it in the air, bite it with your teeth and, best of all, spend it. That’s where my ambition lies.’ He sipped his drink and became reflective. ‘Yet I sometimes wonder if it could have been played better.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The role of Lamberto.’

  ‘Giles Randolph surpassed himself.’

  ‘Yes, but would he have surpassed Lawrence Firethorn?’

  ‘Do not mention that foul name!’ rasped Vavasor.

  ‘We are bound to compare the two titans of the stage.’

  ‘I’d not let Firethorn say a single word that I wrote.’

  ‘Nor me, John, but I’ll not deny his monstrous talent.’

  ‘It’s his monstrous character that I object to. He’s a colossus of conceit. But, no, to answer your question, I do not think that he could have matched Giles as Lamberto.’

  ‘Could Giles have matched him as Lord Loveless?’

  ‘Matched him and beaten him,’ said Vavasor. ‘On the strength of what I saw at yesterday’s performance of The Malevolent Comedy, many actors could have outdone Firethorn. He simply walked through the part, Cyrus. I’ve never seen him put so little effort into a role, and the rest of them were no better. They were lacklustre.’

  ‘That does not sound like Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘They let Saul Hibbert down badly.’

  ‘He’ll not have liked that.’

  ‘It will have brought him one step closer to Banbury’s Men.’

  ‘Our main task is to drive a wedge between him and Firethorn,’ Hame reminded him. ‘That’s all that Giles urged upon us. Saul has written a fine comedy but there’s no certainty that he can do it again. If he fails to fulfil his promise, he’ll fall by the wayside.’

  ‘I’ll not weep for him. He’s as big a monster as Firethorn.’

  ‘There’s not room for two of them in Westfield’s Men.’

  ‘Three – you forget Barnaby Gill.’

  Hame laughed. ‘The worst of them, in some respects.’

  ‘We’ve done what was asked of us,’ said Vavasor. ‘We poured our poison into Saul’s ear. We dangled the prospect of more money in front of him, stroked him, flattered him, fawned upon him and led him to believe that he’ll be welcomed with open arms at the Curtain.’

  ‘Only if his mind is fertile enough, and I begin to doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All that he has to offer is one act of a new play.’

  ‘Does he work so slowly?’

  ‘Saul is lazy and too easily distracted.’

  ‘I’d written six plays before Lamberto,’ recalled Vavasor, ‘and the moment that it was sold, we began work on Pompey the Great.’

  ‘You are chased by demons, John.’

  ‘I have this nagging compulsion to write.’

  ‘Saul’s only compulsion is to boast about what he will write,’ said Hame, ‘but there’s little evidence of any serious labour. He had the nerve to ask for money in advance when the play is still locked in his brain.’

  ‘Giles Randolph would never countenance that.’

  ‘I told him so.’

  ‘Let him sink or swim as a playwright,’ said Vavasor, callously. ‘I care not. All that I wish to do is to drag him away from the Queen’s Head and give Firethorn a slap in the face.’

  ‘We’ll give him far more than a slap, John.’

  ‘God willing!’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing godly about it. It relies solely on the malevolence that Saul describes so well in his comedy.’

  ‘I do not follow you, Cyrus.’

  ‘We have to be malign and merciless,’ said Hame, icily. ‘We have to shake Westfield’s Men to the very core by stealing their new playwright. Let me turn prophet and make this one prediction. By th
e end of the week, Saul Hibbert will be ours.’ He smirked. ‘Whether we keep him or not, of course, is another matter.’

  The disappearance of Richard Honeydew did not come to light for an hour. It was Margery Firethorn who first noticed that he was not there. When she rounded up the other apprentices to take them back home with her, they had no idea where Honeydew had gone. The alarm was raised and Nicholas Bracewell instituted an immediate search. It was fruitless. Nicholas was disturbed. Had it been one of the other boys missing, he would not have worried so much. Inclined to waywardness, they had been known to wander off or play games in odd corners of the inn. Honeydew, by contrast, always stayed close to the adult members of the company. He was far too responsible to get lost.

  Leonard was rolling an empty barrel across the yard with practised ease. When he saw his friend, Nicholas rushed over to him.

  ‘Dick Honeydew has vanished,’ he said.

  ‘Is he not back, then?’

  ‘Back from where?’

  ‘Wherever he went,’ said Leonard. ‘I saw him leave.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Earlier on – when I was sweeping the yard.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Yes, Nicholas.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Straight out through the gate and into Gracechurch Street.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Nicholas. ‘He should have stayed here.’

  ‘He was in a dream.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leonard. ‘When I called out to him, he did not even wave back. He could not have heard me. The lad was miles away.’

  ‘Did you see which way he turned?’

  ‘Left, towards Bishopsgate.’

  ‘Bishopsgate? Surely he did not intend to walk back to Shoreditch on his own.’ The answer dawned on Nicholas. ‘The church!’

  ‘What church?’

  ‘St Martin Outwich. It’s where Hal Bridger was buried.’

  Leonard was relieved. ‘Ah, that’s where he is, then. No need to trouble ourselves any more.’

  ‘Except that he should have got back by now. Thanks, Leonard,’ said the book holder, moving away. ‘I’ll go in search of him.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘No, just tell the others where I’ve gone. I’ll not be long.’

  Nicholas went out into Gracechurch Street and swung left, striding purposefully through the crowd and keeping his eyes peeled for a sign of Honeydew. Reassured by the thought that he might have gone to pay his respects to his friend, Nicholas was also quietly alarmed that he had not yet returned. London was a dangerous place for anyone. A small, trusting, defenceless boy like Honeydew was especially vulnerable. He could have been the victim of a footpad or been set on for fun by one of the gangs of ragged children who inhabited the area. Nicholas quickened his pace. The boy might be in need of help.

  When he approached the churchyard, he caught a glimpse of a figure near one of the graves and thought for a moment that it was Honeydew. It was only when he got closer that he realised it was an old man, standing in silence beside a gravestone with his hat in his hands. There was nobody else in the churchyard. Nicholas went into the church but it, too, was empty. He took the opportunity to drop to his knees before the altar in order to pray for the boy’s safe return.

  Going back outside, he intended to speak to the old man but he was no longer there. The churchyard was deserted. He began to wonder if Honeydew had, in fact, been there at all yet he could think of no other destination. It seemed unlikely that he would have gone to Bridger’s home to offer his condolences to the parents. Had he done so, he would have been ejected without ceremony by the leather-seller. If that had been the case, Honeydew would have been back at the Queen’s Head a half an hour ago.

  Nicholas was distressed. The apprentice was a special friend of his, looking to the book holder for protection against the repeated teasing of the other boys. Because he was the most talented of them, Honeydew was always given the leading female roles and this aroused great envy. The others invariably tried to play tricks on him and, most of the time, they were thwarted by Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder took the disappearance personally. It hurt him almost as much as the death of Hal Bridger. He had a duty of care to both boys and he had failed them.

  Richard Honeydew, hopefully, was still alive and it was imperative that he was found quickly. The problem for Nicholas was that he had no idea where to start. Vexed and preoccupied, he walked slowly towards the gate. Before he got there, he saw Alice Bridger enter the churchyard. She blinked in surprise.

  ‘What are you doing here again?’ she asked.

  ‘Looking for one of the apprentices.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I believe that he came here to say a last farewell to Hal.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Within the last hour.’

  ‘A small, slight, fair-haired boy with a red cap?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, eagerly. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘When, Mrs Bridger? What did he do? Where did he go?’

  ‘I cannot say where they took him.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘There were two of them,’ she replied. ‘I was in the porch when the boy walked towards the church with the young lady. Then suddenly, a gentleman came up behind them. He threw a cloak over the boy and carried him off.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Nicholas, anxiously. ‘In which direction?’

  ‘I did not see.’

  ‘Could you not have come and warned us?’

  ‘How did I know that the boy belonged to you?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he conceded, ‘you could not have done. I see that now.’

  ‘In truth, even if I had realised who he was, I could never have entered that abominable tavern of yours.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I would have felt unclean.’

  ‘You could have sent someone in for me.’

  ‘No, sir. I could not.’

  ‘A boy’s life may be at stake. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  ‘It means everything,’ she replied, looking helplessly towards her son’s grave. ‘Our son’s life was at stake in that dreadful place where you put on those plays. I hope that there’s not a second tragedy but evil must be punished, as it was in Hal’s case.’ She reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief. Turning back to Nicholas, she offered it to him. ‘The young lady dropped this.’

  Saul Hibbert was in a more cheerful mood. The afternoon performance had been a revelation to him, showing just what the company could do when they were fully committed and reinforcing his belief in the supreme quality of his play. Congratulations flooded in from all sides. When the spectators had gone, he could still hear their paeans of praise and feel the endless pats of approval on his back. His self-esteem burgeoned even more. After a celebratory drink with Lawrence Firethorn in the taproom, he made his way back to his chamber to luxuriate in his increasing renown and to change his attire before he went out that evening.

  He was on the point of departing when there was a knock on the door. Expecting it to be one of the servants, he opened the door and was instead confronted by a glowering Alexander Marwood. The landlord had a determined glint in his eye and a sheaf of bills in his hand.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Hibbert, haughtily.

  ‘Payment, sir.’

  ‘I paid you last week.’

  ‘There have been several other charges since,’ said Marwood, holding up the bills. ‘On Sunday, for instance, you dined in your room with a young lady.’ He read from the first piece of paper. ‘Item, a dish of anchovies. Item, a bottle of Canary wine. Item—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Hibbert, nastily. ‘I know what we ate and drank.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll settle the bill.’

  ‘All in good time, my man.’

  ‘No more credit can be extended to you.’

  Hib
bert stiffened. ‘Are you deaf as well as demented?’ he said. ‘Surely, the applause out there reached even your ears. It went on for an eternity. Anyone who was in the yard today will tell you that I’m the finest playwright in the whole of London. I bring fame and honour to the Queen’s Head. You should be paying me to stay here.’

  ‘That’s what I am doing.’

  ‘Be off with you!’

  ‘Not until this business is resolved.’

  ‘Do you dare to hound me with these petty amounts?’

  ‘In total, the bills amount to almost two pounds.’

  ‘Then I’ve been ruinously overcharged.’

  ‘Every item has been recorded with care,’ said Marwood, wounded by the accusation of fraud. ‘My wife keeps the accounts and Sybil does not make mistakes.’

  ‘Well, she made one when she married you! I’ve never seen such an ugly visage. How can your wife bear to look at someone who belongs in a menagerie with the other animals?’

  Marwood was indignant. ‘I’ll stand for no insults, Master Hibbert.’

  ‘Then you’d best get out of my way or you’ll hear a hundred of them. Begone, you pestilence!’ shouted Hibbert. ‘Go back to your kennel before I reach for my sword.’

  ‘What about these bills?’

  ‘A pox on them!’

  Grabbing the bills from Marwood, he tossed them into the air to create a minor blizzard. He picked up his hat then walked out of the room. The landlord dropped to his knees and gathered up the bills before pursuing Hibbert quickly down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase, Lawrence Firethorn was talking to Nicholas Bracewell. They looked up as the two men descended, guessing at once why Marwood was on the heels of his guest. Hibbert adopted a lofty tone.

  ‘Ah, Lawrence,’ he said, ‘I crave a boon. Remove this leech of a landlord from me before he sucks my blood.’

  ‘I’ve more important concerns than that,’ said Firethorn.

  ‘What’s more important than indulging me? I’ve brought laughter back to the Queen’s Head with my play. That deserves a reward.’